Carlson's gaze lingered on Eline for a long second.
Then he leaned down.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Eline saw the movement. His breath caught — and instinct took over. His eyes shut tightly, almost painfully tight, like someone bracing for impact.
Not anticipation.
Not invitation.
Fear.
Carlson stopped.
Just inches away.
He studied Eline's expression — the tension in his brows, the stiffness in his jaw, the way his fingers curled inward.
Carlson exhaled through his nose.
With one hand, he gently took Eline's wrist.
"Look at you," he murmured.
Instead of continuing, he shifted him carefully — lifting him from his lap and placing him back against the bed. Eline's head sank into the pillow. Carlson leaned over him, one hand braced beside his shoulder.
"Are you pretending," Carlson asked quietly, "or are you truly that unaware?"
Eline opened his eyes again.
And this time, something had changed.
The potion had settled fully into his bloodstream.
His pupils were darker now, his gaze heavy — not frightened anymore, but unfocused and warm. There was heat in his skin, a faint flush rising along his collarbone beneath the sheer silk fabric.
He wasn't acting.
He wasn't seducing.
But his body betrayed him.
His breathing had slowed — deeper, warmer.
His eyes lingered on Carlson in a way that felt intimate without intention. Curious. Drawn.
Unaware of what that look did.
Carlson noticed.
Of course he did.
The thin silk clung slightly to Eline's form, the candlelight catching on the curve of his throat, the rise of his chest. He looked… inviting.
Not because he tried to be.
But because the potion stripped away his guarded edges.
Eline swallowed.
"Why does it feel…" he whispered, voice thick, "…like I'm burning?"
Carlson's jaw tightened.
"It's your blood responding," he said lowly. "Not your mind."
Eline's fingers twitched against the sheets.
He looked up at Carlson again — and this time his gaze didn't flinch.
There was no fear in it now.
Just warmth.
And something dangerously close to surrender — though he didn't realize it.
Carlson leaned back slightly, putting a fraction of distance between them.
"This is not how it was supposed to unfold," he muttered.
But he didn't move away completely.
And neither did Eline.
His hand slid up to cradle the side of Eline's face — firm, controlled — and he kissed him.
Not rushed.
Not desperate.
Deliberate.
Slow.
It wasn't a tentative touch. It was deep, consuming — like he was trying to memorize the shape of Eline's breath, the warmth of him, the taste of something rare he had searched years to find.
Eline stiffened at first.
Then the potion answered for him.
The heat in his veins surged, blooming outward from his chest to his fingertips. His fingers tightened in the sheets, and a soft, startled sound escaped him — swallowed almost immediately by the intensity of the kiss.
Carlson did not deviate.
He kissed him like he was extracting something invisible. Like the moment required precision.
Like it mattered.
Eline's breathing faltered within seconds.
He tried to steady it, but every time he pulled in air, it felt thin — insufficient. His body leaned upward instinctively, chasing the warmth rather than retreating from it.
It was overwhelming.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
When Carlson finally allowed him a sliver of space, Eline's lips parted automatically, breath uneven and shallow.
Instead, his body reacted in quiet betrayal — heat pooling beneath his skin, awareness sharpening around every point of contact.
Carlson watched him carefully.
"You're responding," he said softly, almost to himself.
Eline's eyes fluttered open, dazed.
"I can't… breathe," he whispered — though he didn't move away.
Carlson's thumb brushed slowly along Eline's jaw, grounding him.
"You can," he replied. "You're just not used to the fire yet."
And then he kissed him again.
Still slow.
Still intentional.
But deeper.
And this time, Eline didn't brace.
Eline turned his face slightly, trying to draw in air.
His lungs burned.
Carlson didn't chase him immediately.
Instead, he hovered close — close enough that their breaths still mingled.
"You're overwhelmed," Carlson said quietly.
Eline's fingers pushed weakly against his chest. Not rejection. Just survival.
"I can't—" he tried again, breath uneven.
Carlson caught his wrist — not harshly, but firmly — and pressed it down against the bed beside his head.
"You don't know what to do with this," Carlson murmured, studying him. "Do you?"
Eline swallowed.
The potion was making everything louder — every touch amplified, every inch of space charged.
Carlson adjusted his position slightly, one hand resting beside Eline's shoulder — not pinning him, not restraining him. Just present. Solid.
When he leaned in again, the kiss wasn't dramatic.
It was deliberate.
Slower this time.
He gave Eline space to respond — and watched what he chose.
Eline hesitated for half a second.
Then he answered it.
When Eline's breath faltered again, Carlson pulled back first this time — barely an inch.
"You see?" he murmured. "You adjust."
There was something almost clinical in the way he said it. Not cold — but composed. Like he was testing a reaction and recording it.
Eline's fingers tightened faintly against the sheets.
The heat in his blood hadn't faded. If anything, it had settled deeper, more controlled now. Less frantic. More consuming.
Carlson felt it immediately.
He broke the kiss just enough to move.
His hand slid down, catching Eline's wrist before the fabric could bunch tighter.
For a moment, he simply held it there.
Then, without force but without hesitation, he guided Eline's hand away from the sheet and placed it against his own back.
Closer.
"Not there," Carlson said quietly.
His voice wasn't teasing. It wasn't smug.
It was steady.
"If you need something to hold onto," he added, eyes lowering briefly to where their hands met, "use me."
Eline froze for half a second —
The warmth beneath his palm.
The solid presence.
The fact that Carlson hadn't raised his voice.
Hadn't demanded.
Just redirected.
Eline's fingers tightened again — this time in fabric that wasn't linen.
Carlson noticed the shift.
His gaze lifted slowly back to Eline's face.
"Better," he murmured.
And then he leaned in again.
The next kiss wasn't harder.
It was deeper.
And this time, Eline wasn't clutching at escape.
He was holding onto something real.